


I'll Put on My Dancing Shoes Real Tight

by Fallynleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Doing Feminine Things, Gen, Kitchens, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's favorite room has always been the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Put on My Dancing Shoes Real Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Written because s8e14 "Trial and Error" has Dean cook in the Bunker's kitchen, and s9e4 "Slumber Party" reveals that Dean also cleans the Bunker's kitchen.
> 
> The title is from the song "Saturday Night" by Natalia Kills.

The washrag smelt of borax, of a deep, chemical cleanse, it smelt like something that would clear away dust and leviathans alike, like something purifying and abrasive in a way that left your hands raw and soft. Dean wrung it in his hands then slapped it against the counter, swiping down the surface, clearing away decades of grime and disuse.

He washed a couple bowls, too. And some utensils and measuring cups, soaking them in warm soapy water that clung to Dean's skin up to his elbows, getting on the folds of his rolled up sleeves.

When he measured out two cups of flour, some of it spilled in the form of a cloud of drifting white sediment that eventually settled onto the counters and the floor. Dean didn't mind. He would clean it later, while he was waiting.

The dough felt good to knead in his hands. It oozed between his fingers in a manner that was totally unlike the various oozes associated with monsters. Dean was patient with it, the repetitive motion mesmerizing, and later, after it had cooled, he rolled it out on a floured surface with a good strong hand, and folded it into shape, tucking it into the corners of the pan.

Dean thought of Bobby when he made the filling. Didn't know why. He put the apple skins in a neat pile to be thrown away later, then chopped up the apple slices and dumped them into the bowl. The scent of nutmeg and cinnamon was thick and rich, the spices blending with the sugars and salt, forming a fine dusting over the chunks of apple that was entirely different from the fine dusting of age that had settled over the kitchen. It had aged well, though. Like good liquor. Maybe that's why Dean thought of Bobby.

He cut the strips of dough for the lattice top with measured precision. Laid them across the apple filling with care, pressing the edges down into the rim. He brushed the lattice with an egg wash, then sprinkled some cinnamon and sugar over it, and stepped back to admire his work.

He didn't have Mary's recipe for apple pie. So he'd learned to improvise his own. It had taken many years of stolen hours in other people's kitchens, waiting beside other people's ovens, but Dean knew how to make pie.

Somehow, kitchens always smelt of Mary. Of her holding onto Dean as he held onto her, gripping her tight when John wouldn't. It was one of his first memories, and one of his best. Sam had seen it, in Heaven. But Sam did not remember standing in his own kitchen, in his own house, feeling the heat from the oven wrapping him up all snug in his mother's arms.

Maybe Dean would show him. Coax Sam into the kitchen when they were between jobs, in that lull that Dean never quite knew what to do with. Just stand there with Sam and smell the oven, all sweet and warm and promising. Then take the pie out and set it on the counter to cool. Even health-obsessed Sam could appreciate a well-made pie, Dean thought.

He grabbed some old moth-eaten potholders and closed his eyes when the heat billowed all around him when he opened the oven door. He lingered there, just for a moment, then opened his eyes to retrieve his creation.

It had a lovely golden brown top, his pie. Dean's eyes stung when he lifted it off of the rack and held it high to appraise it.

Satisfied, he set it down on the potholders, and wiped away the tear that had formed in the corner of his eye. It was a nice kitchen. The nicest he'd ever owned, even though it was the _only_ kitchen he'd ever owned. It was a little industrial, this kitchen. But Dean could work with industrial. And it still smelled like Mary.

The kitchen knives were surprisingly sharp, for being at least several decades old. They sliced into Dean's pie as smooth as silk. He cut himself a generous piece, but left enough for Sam and enough for seconds later. He'd bring out Sam's piece of pie, this time. Would drag Sam into the kitchen another time, after Dean thought he could be able to cook in his own kitchen without feeling that old, familiar knot in his throat.

But Dean wasn't sure if that feeling would ever go away. Wasn't sure if he even wanted it to. Maybe he could share it with Sam, too. Because kitchens had always been a private place for Dean, but they had never been a lonely one.

Dean took the first bite of his pie before he left the kitchen, savoring the taste and feel of it in his mouth. The first bite was always the best bite. It was the only bite that mattered, really. The rest of them were just filler, something sweet to fill the space of time.

The pie was good. Better than most, as Dean knew it would be.

It tasted of kitchens. But then, all pie tasted of kitchens, no matter if it's homemade or not. It tasted of waiting by the oven, of kneading dough in your own hands, of washing dishes in clusters of bubbles.

Dean cleaned the kitchen before he left, wiping down the counters, reorganizing all of the pans and bowls and utensils, sweeping the floor. He cleaned it, so it would be ready for him to use again tomorrow.


End file.
